


Ochre Moon

by SOABA



Series: Sentinel Fusion [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Attempted Ritual Sacrifice, BAMF Stiles, Corrupt Governments, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mentions of Past Statutory Rape, Sentinel Senses, Talk of Legalized Slavery, Very Little Respect for Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOABA/pseuds/SOABA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has unknowingly spent years on medication designed to fully suppress his Sentinel Gene. Then, one day, the medicine stops working and it’s definitely Derek’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ochre Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Keira Marcos' July Rough Trade Challenge.  
> Enjoy!

“I can’t lose him, John,” Claudia whispered, gently stroking the soft hair that stuck up in tufts on their sleeping little boy’s head, “I _won’t_.”

“We’ll do whatever we have to, baby, to keep that from happening,” John swore, “We aren’t going to lose him. I promise.”

**(*)**

“The _Sentinel Ownership Act_ was ratified on June seventeenth in nineteen ninety,” Mrs. Kerrigan read from the slideshow.

Stiles had his notebook out, taking notes as far as his teacher was concerned; though if she looked closely at the chicken scratch it wouldn’t have taken her take her very long at all to realize that he was really in the process of creating a spell that would render dark witches and warlocks impotent on the magic front. He _hated_ having to listen to teachers defending the enslavement of an entire group of people simply because they had been born different. It made him unaccountably furious.

“The _Sentinel Ownership Act_ was fundamental in stabilizing our country after the decade of turbulence that followed the ‘Great Awakening’, the term used to describe the sudden reemergence of Sentinels across the world.”

“These enhanced warriors are a throwback to _primitive_ man and have very little control over themselves. It was quickly discovered that the best way to keep a Sentinel sane was to assign them a Guide, a person with higher than normal empathy that could keep them grounded in times of stress. Despite this, many Sentinels refused to accept the Guides assigned to them and our government was forced to take more drastic action to safeguard the citizens of this country.”

“The _Sentinel Ownership Act_ was first proposed by Norman Oliver in the December of nineteen eighty-nine, and, yes, that will be on Monday’s test, people, so write it down. The opening statement, which all of you will need to be able to transcribe on paper, word for word, is this: ‘ _Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States in Congress assembled that the Sentinels of the United States of America shall, from this day forward, be considered the property of the people of the United States and be summarily delivered into the custody of the American Sentinel Center for the duration of their lives. This course of action is to be taken to guarantee the safety of every citizen of the United States of America._ ’

“Following the ratification of the _SOA_ , that’s the abbreviation often used in official documents, all U.S. citizens over the age of five were required to submit themselves for a blood test to determine whether or not they had the Sentinel Gene. Those who possessed the genome were given over to the custody of the U.S. Government. Nowadays, all children are tested on their fifth birthday for the gene, this test is mandatory and the failure to report your children for testing is a felony and will result in you facing serious criminal charges. Testing is done at the age of five because it is at this age that it becomes impossible for a blood test to result in a false positive or a false negative for the Sentinel Gene. In most cases, the Sentinel Gene does not stabilize in an individual until they reach the age of five.”

“Children who test positive are removed from the public eye and raised in a safe, secure environment until the time that their enhanced senses come online. When this occurs they are assigned a suitable Guide and enter into a specialized branch of military service. Sentinels and Guides are doing incredible things protecting this country from a distance.”

“Mrs. Kerrigan?” a kid named Max King spoke up without raising his hand, “Why are Sentinels regulated and not Guides? Don’t they have freaky powers too?”

“Raise your hand before you ask a question, Maxwell.” Mrs. Kerrigan chided, “While it is true that Guides possess a more highly developed empathy that normal humans do, only two percent of the Guides that pass every level of the rigorous inspection process and are allowed to bond with a Sentinel develop truly enhanced mental abilities, and those that do are automatically fitted with a psionic inhibitor at the base of their spine by law, to prevent them from ever using these powers.” Mrs. Kerrigan paused as Lydia’s hand shot into the air, “Yes, Miss Martin?”

“What do you think about the idea that Sentinels fought against bonding with the Guides assigned to them because they weren’t mentally and spiritually compatible?” Lydia asked, “There’s research that shows that when a Sentinel is allowed to _choose_ their Guide they are more stable, more powerful, and more productive.”

“That is nothing more than a fanciful notion perpetuated by a people who desperately want to believe in the romance of Sentinels, Miss Martin,” Mrs. Kerrigan replied firmly.

“But it works,” Lydia insisted, “There’s proof that it works. The Alpha Sentinel-Guide Pair of London, Holmes and Watson, chose each other and they have done an amazing amount of good for the people that they consider their _tribe_. And they’ve done it _without_ the stringent stipulations that America has placed on its Sentinels. Also Guide Watson has the enhanced abilities that our government fears so much and he’s _never_ used them to hurt anyone but criminals. The people in Europe believe that Guides are incapable of harming innocents and it’s illegal to use a psionic inhibitor against the Guides there, who, by the way, nearly _all_ developed mental powers upon bonding with their Sentinels. Only two percent _didn’t_.”

“Miss Martin,” Mrs. Kerrigan responded, her cheeks flushed with temper, “The situation in Europe is _vastly_ different from our own and _not_ up for discussion at this time.”

Lydia subsided, albeit reluctantly. A deep frown remained on her face as Mrs. Kerrigan continued on with her lecture.

“Now, the _Sentinel Ownership Act_ , while extremely beneficial to us as a people,” Mrs. Kerrigan shot an irritated look Lydia’s way, which sparked an almost inaudible growl from Jackson, “Was unfortunately not accepted by everyone right away. There were those who protested it; most notably, a young man named Blair Sandburg who gained a large number of followers in a very short amount of time. Doctor Sandburg left the country only a few months later, after receiving a significant payoff, and the dangerous fervor that he had managed to stir up died down almost immediately in the wake of his departure.”

Because it wasn’t at all suspicious for a man who was as publicly outspoken against a corrupt government as Sandburg had been to vanish without a trace, Stiles thought.

Erika raised her hand and Mrs. Kerrigan nodded at her, “Mrs. Kerrigan? Is it true that the bond between Sentinels and Guides has to be _sexual_ to work?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Kerrigan looked flustered at the, apparently in her opinion, brazen question.

“So since the bond is sexual, that means that the government is basically condoning _rape_ , since Sentinels don’t get any kind of say in who their Guide is,” Erika continued in a sugary sweet voice that Stiles had long ago learned to be very wary of, “Are you telling us that we should be grateful for having a government that believes that stripping away an entire group’s rights to their own body is okay?”

“I…” Mrs. Kerrigan now looked furious, “It’s for their own good, Miss Reyes.”

Nobody looked convinced anymore; casting doubtful, disgusted looks their teacher’s way.

“Sentinels are barely a step above _animals_ ,” Mrs. Kerrigan stressed, “They have to be strictly controlled for the safety of everyone else in our country.”

The bell rang, saving Stiles from having to listen to any more of Kerrigan waxing poetic about slavery. He slammed his notebook closed, only realizing as he did so that he had snapped his pencil in half sometime during the lecture.

“Remember,” Mrs. Kerrigan called out sourly, as her students scrambled to pack up their things and get the hell out of her classroom, “There’s a test on Monday.”

“Are you okay?” Erika cornered Stiles at his locker, the rest of the pack forming a protective half circle around the two of them. Evidently they had noticed the pencil snapping.

Stiles took a deep breath, “It’s sick and wrong and it makes me just this side of homicidal to hear about how our government treats Sentinels. My mother was a Guide, which means that I’m genetically predisposed to having Sentinel children… it would kill me if…”

“You know we wouldn’t let that happen,” Boyd spoke up, “ _Derek_ wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Yeah,” Stiles exhaled and checked his phone out of habit, “Speaking of the Sourwolf; he’s sent out a group text.”

“What does Derek want?” Scott asked after Stiles had opened the text and read it.

“For us to meet at the house immediately after school,” Stiles answered, “Apparently Peter’s got something he needs to tell us before the full moon tonight.”

**(*)**

“It’s called an Ochre Moon,” Peter explained, he was lounging lazily on Derek’s couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. If the man’s actions were irritating Stiles, they had to be driving Derek up the proverbial wall, “Or a Soul Moon, if you prefer the more romantic title.”

Stiles frowned and his tone was accusing as he said, “I’ve never heard of an Ochre Moon, Peter.”

“Because you know everything there is to know about the supernatural, little witch?” Peter snorted before focusing on Derek again, “You’ll want to keep your pups separated from moonrise till dawn, nephew mine, or else they could end up soul-bound.”

“Soul-bound,” Derek repeated without inflection.

“An Ochre Moon can create permanent, and I do mean permanent, connections between a werewolf and his or her _mate_ ,” Peter revealed with a smirk, “All it takes is a single, solitary touch to do the trick. So you’ll need to keep the couples separated. Soul bonding is a dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous how?” Scott demanded in almost a whine, clearly not pleased with the idea of spending a _whole_ night away from Allison.

“You kill one half of a soul-bound pair and the other half dies too,” Peter answered, “Being apart for long periods of time is painful; it can be painful for short intervals of time too unless the pair has managed to find a balance through copious amounts of sex.”

Stiles choked on his coffee; Derek reached over without looking to pat him firmly on the back.

“Perhaps you should locate a spell to take care of that virgin problem of yours, Stiles,” Peter suggested snidely.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Peter and let his magic rise to the surface; his eyes took on a greenish tint, purple sparks danced along his fingertips, and his hair darkened. Stiles knew that the older man found the changes in Stiles’ appearance disconcerting, at the very least, especially since he apparently smelled _powerful_ when he pulled the cork on his magic. Predictably, Peter flinched back at the sight.

The hand Derek had on Stiles’ back became soothing and he spoke with the solid power of an Alpha, “Enough, Peter stop provoking my Emissary.”

The use of the title was deliberate, a reminder to Peter that after the Alpha and the Alpha Mate, a position that Derek seemed to have no desire whatsoever to fill, to Stiles’ private relief, that Stiles was next in the chain of command, even over Derek’s Head Beta, Scott. The use of the word ‘ _my_ ’ was intentional too, a not-so-subtle jibe at Peter’s expense; he was, after all, only a member of Derek’s pack on a _probationary_ basis until he managed to prove himself.

“As you wish, oh mighty Alpha,” Peter conceded with just enough _reverence_ in his tone to sound like he meant it. It fooled no one, least of all Derek who bared his teeth in warning at his uncle, “So, I’ve done my duty and informed you of the situation and now I’ll be removing myself so that you can handle it however you see fit, since my suggestions will undoubtedly be ignored. Oh, Allison, your father wants you home tonight, darling. He’d prefer a more traditional commitment ceremony between you and Scott than a soul-bonding.”

“And where are you going to be tonight, Peter?” Allison questioned, as politely as she could. It had to suck, Stiles decided, to know that your father was deeply in love with a man who was only a few shades shy of being a full-blown psycho on good days.

“Up in the mountains,” Peter answered. “Far enough away that I won’t make it back here before dawn at least. Do try to keep from doing anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Peter didn’t bother saying goodbye. He simply trotted out the front door like he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Your uncle is a dick, Sourwolf,” Stiles declared hotly once Peter was a reasonable distance away, remembering at the last minute that he couldn’t flail his hands around because he was still holding a half a cup of lukewarm coffee, “A useful dick on occasion, but a dick nonetheless.”

Derek sighed heavily, “You told me that you were going to take care of the virgin problem, Stiles.”

“I _am_ ,” Stiles defended, blushing, “I’ve been, uh, doing lots of research.”

“Weighing candidates, Stilinski?” Jackson interjected with a smirk that didn’t quite belay the concern in his eyes. He could probably smell Stiles’ distress at the topic.

Stiles glared at him on principle. Granted, these days they got along much better than they had before, but that pretty much hinged on their ability to hide the fact that they didn’t hate each other from everybody else.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Lydia spoke up, “If Stiles wants to wait, that’s his prerogative and not something than any of us have any business discussing.”

Lydia was a goddess who deserved to be worshiped, even if that worship was entirely platonic on Stiles’ part now and would remain that way.

“It’s dangerous for a magic user to remain a virgin after they begin practicing,” Derek revealed with absolutely no tact whatsoever, “That kind of powerful innocence is something that is coveted by those who practice black magic. I don’t particularly feel like housebreaking another Emissary because Stiles got his heart ripped out and eaten.”

A cacophony of growls and snarls rang out; Stiles would have been touched by his Pack’s concern if he weren’t too busy wanting to die of embarrassment. It was one thing to be a virgin at eighteen; it was another thing entirely for all your friends to _know_ it. Stiles was going to kill Derek for insisting on discussing the topic in front of them.

“Oh,” Lydia replied. She frowned thoughtfully and then suggested, “We could hire someone.”

“That’s illegal, Lydz,” Erika pointed out, “Plus, we’d have to go out of town to find someone. There aren’t exactly a lot of hookers in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles groaned, “Can we not talk about this? We actually have a far more prevalent problem to deal with at the moment.”

“Fine,” Lydia agreed, “But first thing tomorrow we’re going to discuss our options.”

‘ _Not if I shoot myself first,_ ’ Stiles thought.

**(*)**

“Would you please relax, big guy?” Stiles asked from his place on the couch, tired of watching Derek pace back and forth as if he were expecting the house to be attacked at any moment. “Everything is fine. We’ve got all the couples separated by Mountain Ash and I placed more protective wards around the preserve and our den this afternoon than was even remotely necessary, dude.”

“If they weren’t necessary, then why did you place them?” Derek questioned, his control over his wolf extraordinary. Stiles had never met another werewolf who could be so collected during a full moon.

“Because Peter’s a dick,” Stiles answered.

Derek rolled his eyes as Lydia snickered from behind her Physics textbook. She was curled up on one of the oversized chairs that Stiles had picked out to adorn the family room following the rebuild of the Hale house the summer before. Stiles had picked out most of the décor for the house actually, aside from the bedrooms, since Derek was hopeless in that department and the girls couldn’t be trusted not to add frills to everything just because they knew that the boys would let them get away with it.

“Do you think you could possibly come up with a new way to describe my uncle, Stiles?” Derek wondered.

“Sure thing,” Stiles returned rapid-fire, “Peter’s a cock. How’s that?”

Derek snorted in amusement despite himself and plopped himself down on the other end of the couch, picking up one of Allison’s hunting magazines. Stiles mentally high-fived himself; he was the only one who could illicit emotions that even remotely qualified as pleasant in Derek and he took great pride in doing so. Derek was too serious too much of the time for it to possibly be healthy for him.

Stiles had only seen Derek really smile on a handful of occasions, which was a shame, because Derek had the most beautiful smile in the world. It never failed to make Stiles’ heart twinge in his chest. God, he had it so bad.

“I need coffee,” Stiles decided a few minutes later, having grown bored with trying to complete his math homework.

“You do _not_ ,” Derek contradicted at once, “You’ve had more than enough. If you drink any more you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

“But I’m tired,” Stiles whined, “And I can’t go to sleep knowing that because of the moon the front lawn is _orange_ , Der. It’ll give me nightmares or something.”

“Fine,” Derek gave in, which immediately made Stiles suspicious, because Derek never gave in without an ulterior motive, “I’ll go make you some.”

“Don’t you dare try to trick me with decaf, Sourwolf,” Stiles said, “I can tell the difference.”

“They taste exactly the same, Stiles,” Derek argued.

“They most certainly do not,” Stiles disagreed.

Derek had the coffee brewed and poured in a mug in less than five minutes, sweetened just the way that Stiles liked it. He carried it over to Stiles and held it out to him.

Their fingers barely touched, but that was all it took. Crimson lightning cracked across the sky outside even as something in Stiles’ chest snapped into place with a force that stole his breath away. Stiles only had a moment to look up into Derek’s eyes, a green as beautiful as the forest, before everything went black.

**(*)**

Stiles woke to the voices of his Pack and, fuck the Gods, those voices _hurt_. Every syllable uttered was like a gong had been struck and thunder had boomed inside his ears at the same time. And there was a hissing coming from somewhere too; why would Derek allow a snake inside the den? And did everyone have to breathe so _loudly_? And what were those strange drum beats that weren’t completely unpleasant but were still weird to hear?

“Quiet,” Derek ordered, and thank Christ that at least Stiles’ Sourwolf knew how to speak without screaming, “You’re hurting him.”

“But Derek,” and Scott sounded so terrified that Stiles could probably forgive him for yelling, “He’s a _Sentinel_. They’ll take him away from us!”

“No one is taking Stiles anywhere,” Derek swore solemnly, “I’ll kill them if they try. Peter, go get his father, _now_.”

Stiles spared a moment to be touched by that oath before the meaning of Scott’s words caught up to his brain. _Sentinel_. Shit, shit, shit, fucking hell, there was _no_ way! He couldn’t be!

Stiles eyes snapped open and he could see _everything_.

Dust floated through the air, swirling and dancing around. Looking like a jellyfish in one moment and a tree in the next. The window curtains were open just slightly and through the crack he saw sunlight sparkling off the diamond-like dew on the grass throwing rainbows every which way. There was a butterfly breaking out of its golden chrysalis and a plump, pink worm cautiously poking its head out of the hole in the ground that served as his home.

Derek shifted minutely under Stiles, (had Derek been holding him the whole time), and Stiles gaze returned to the inside of Derek’s bedroom and to his Alpha. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat as he looked at Derek with this strange enhanced vision. He had known, of course he had known, that Derek was a beautiful man, but he hadn’t had the clarity to see just how beautiful.

Especially his eyes. They had always been evocative, calling to mind vivid forest scenes, but now Stiles was able to perceive nuances that he hadn’t noticed before. Here they were a stunning emerald, there an almost unearthly jade. There were thin bands of olive ringing both pupils. And underneath the green, there was scarlet red, Alpha red, lurking right below the surface, ready to rise up at Derek’s command.

“ _Stiles, snap out of it,_ ” Derek admonished and Stiles was compelled to listen to him. Not because Derek was his Alpha, but because Derek was… something even more important than that.

“What?” Stiles blinked in confusion.

“You zoned-out,” Derek explained kindly, “You got too focused on one thing, on my eyes. It only lasted a minute though.”

He’d zoned on Derek’s eyes. Okay, someone could just kill him _now_ , thank you very much.

Before he could express that sentiment, Stiles became aware of something else, something even more unpleasant. His skin was on fire; it was as if he’s been stung all over by wasps and it _hurt_. The fabric of his clothes… it was _killing_ him. He needed it off right _now_.

A pained whimper escaped from his lips as he fought to get the coarse material away from his body. Derek seemed to understand what was wrong because he started helping him and instructed Erika to, “Get the cotton blanket from the top shelf of the linen closet; the red one. It’s pure cotton and about the only thing that he’ll be able to stand against his skin right now.”

Erika raced to obey, the sound of her feet hitting the floor an explosion. Stiles moaned and covered his ears, leaning closer to Derek out of instinct. Derek would keep him safe; he would make the pain go away. Derek held him loosely until Erika returned with the blanket, which he wrapped around Stiles tightly. He peeled off his own shirt, which confused Stiles until Derek pulled Stiles into his lap and guided Stiles’ head to Derek’s shoulder.

Derek smelled like Christmas Trees and safety; Stiles liked it a lot. Stiles decided to tell him so.

Derek chuckled softly, “I’m glad.”

“Lydia smells like strawberries and Scott smells like bananas,” Stiles said in confusion, “I thought we were out of fruit; it was on the shopping list. I was supposed to go get more.”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Derek soothed, rubbing circles into Stiles’ back through the blanket.

“But Jackson needs his pineapple,” Stiles protested, his voice slurring just a bit.

“We’ll get it for him later,” Derek assured him.

“What’s that drumming?” Stiles asked, “It’s strange but nice.”

“I… I think you’re hearing our heartbeats,” Derek answered.

“They don’t hurt,” Stiles told him, “But the voices hurt, except, not yours. Yours feels like drinking hot cocoa.” Derek took a deep breath but Stiles spoke again first, “You’re my Guide.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed.

“The Ochre Moon… we bonded, didn’t we? I can feel you in me; it’s like… a piece of your soul is fluttering around with mine.”

“Yes,” Derek repeated, “I can feel the same thing.”

“I thought we had to be _mates_ for the soul-bonding to happen, Derek,” Stiles reminded, “And you can’t be a werewolf’s mate without sex. I’m pretty damn sure that we haven’t had sex.”

“Apparently,” Derek revealed, his tone laced with irritation, “When my uncle said _mates_ what he really meant was two people, one of whom had to be a werewolf, yes, who loved each other with their entire heart, body, mind, and soul.”

“Your uncle’s a-”

“Dick?” Derek cut him, “Yes, I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles managed.

“You completely missed the part where I admitted that I’m in love with you, didn’t you?” Derek inquired with fond, at least, Stiles _hoped_ it was fond, exasperation.

“Oh,” Stiles _had_ in fact missed it, “I love you too.”

“I know,” Derek replied, amused.

“Yeah, okay, you’re real funny, Solo.”

“You do realize that makes you Leia, right?”

“Hey,” Stiles returned, “I could totally rock a gold metal bikini and you know it.”

Derek laughed, and it was like hearing the stars twinkle in the sky. It was the most gorgeous sound Stiles had ever had the privilege of listening to. He wanted to hear it over and over again for the rest of his life.

“Der?” Stiles’ voice got small as the fear he’d managed to push away earlier crept over him quickly, “I don’t want them to make me hurt people.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Derek said in a tone that brooked no argument, shifting Stiles even closer to him, like he could keep the world at bay as long as he didn’t let go. “I won’t let that happen, Stiles.”

Stiles believed him.

“My dad’s coming,” Stiles realized a moment later, “He’s angry, I can taste it. It tastes like cinnamon and paprika. He’s scared too; that tastes like sour milk. Peter and Chris are with him.”

The rest of the Pack, who had been watching the scene with the kind of patience that Stiles found kind of ridiculously impressive, closed ranks around Stiles and Derek at once.

Stiles was able to follow his father with his sense of hearing as John Linden Stilinski brought his cruiser to a screeching halt just outside the front door. The cruiser’s door was opened and then slammed shut, which elicited a flinch from Stiles’ person, and then John was running up the front porch steps, throwing the door to the den wide open, and then racing up the stairs.

John froze in the doorway of Derek’s bedroom and then demanded, “How in the _hell_ did this happen, Hale?”

Stiles winced and covered his ears again.

“Quietly, John,” Derek chided without heat, “He can’t regulate his sense of hearing very well at the moment; he can’t regulate _any_ of his senses at the moment. He won’t be able to until our bond stabilizes.”

“Which won’t happen without sex,” Stiles’ dad stated bluntly, though in a much quieter voice that was _still_ too loud, “How can you be bonded at all without it?”

“Reports done in other countries have shown that preliminary bonds can form spontaneously between a Sentinel and Guide with a single touch if they are mentally and spiritually in harmony,” Lydia told him in an undertone.

“But that’s not what happened here,” John stated.

“There was an Ochre Moon last night,” Stiles croaked out, when the others just shifted uneasily, “It created a soul-bond between Derek and I and then… everything switched on. Dad, how can I be a Sentinel? I tested negative for the gene when I was five.”

John looked like he had aged a decade upon hearing that question leave his son’s lips, “As far as the government is concerned, kiddo, you did.”

“Dad?” Stiles growled out, bemused and a bit terrified.

“You came online as a Sentinel when you were three, Stiles,” John admitted in a pained whisper, “Your mother did her best to help you keep control of your senses but you were barely more than a baby and we knew that you wouldn’t survive unless we found you a proper Guide or… found a way to suppress your Sentinel Gene.”

Stiles stared at his father, “ _What_?”

“A man named Harley Bentz tried to attack your mother, to get to me, and you came online to protect her,” John took a very deep breath, “You went feral, Stiles, and you killed him. You spent the next few weeks almost constantly sedated… you were in so much pain all the time. Turning you over to the government was never an option for us, even if we hadn’t known the statistics regarding child Sentinels. None of them have ever survived to adulthood without falling into sensory-prolapse, which killed them nine times out of ten., because they couldn’t bond with adult Guides.”

“How did no one ever find about Bentz?” Stiles questioned, wanting so badly for what he was hearing to be no more than a sick joke. But he could _smell_ the honesty and distress wafting off of his father; he could hear the steady beat of the Sheriff’s heart.

“I’m a cop, Stiles, I know how to hide a body,” John told him.

“I’m pretty sure that cops aren’t supposed to hide bodies, dad,” Stiles returned in a shaky voice.

“I suppose, technically, that I didn’t,” John revealed, “I let the bears take care of most of it and nature did the rest.”

Stiles huffed at him, “So you found a way to suppress my senses?”

“Your mother… she had contacts that were magical in nature. She had practiced shamanism as a teenager but stopped to protect me; most of the friends she had in that world took offense to the idea that someone with as much power as your mother had could marry someone as _mundane_ as I am,” John related, “Eventually, she located a witch who was able to create a potion that suppressed your senses and made your Sentinel gene impossible to detect by any means, scientific or magical. We gave it to you and you woke up the next morning completely and utterly fine; you didn’t even remember the attack. When you were tested for the Gene on your fifth birthday, the test came back negative. It had a few side effects, your ADHD, for one, but the potion was _supposed_ to be permanent.”

“Love is more powerful than any other force in the universe,” Peter interjected, “It is a magic that no one can fully understand. The love that your son and my nephew have for each other was strong enough to evoke an Ochre Moon soul-bond; and such soul-bonds cannot be tampered with by any spell or potion. It overrode the potion keeping Stiles dormant within moments of it settling.”

“And it’s permanent?” John asked unhappily.

“Derek is my Guide,” Stiles snapped, greatly irritated by his father’s disapproval.

A look of understanding washed over John’s countenance and he held up his hands in a placating manner, “Okay, kiddo.” John looked at Derek, “He’s not going to tolerate any of us being near you for too much longer. He’s already getting territorial and it’ll only get worse as time passes.”

“Okay,” Derek took that news in stride and quickly instructed, “Everybody’s going to need to make themselves scarce for a few hours-”

“Days,” Peter interrupted, “He has to… glut his senses on you, Derek, imprint on you completely. And he’ll have to be wholly isolated with you for at least five days to truly stabilize; it might actually take more since he’s a Warlock Sentinel.”

“I’m a what?” Stiles questioned.

“A very rare breed of Sentinel that can practice magic, a Warlock Sentinel,” Peter explained.

“I’ll write you a note for school,” John said, after availing himself of a few calming breaths. “Isaac, you can stay with me until Stiles and Derek have… finished. You’re supposed to be living in our house anyway.”

“At least you get to miss Kerrigan’s test on Monday,” Boyd offered helpfully.

**(*)**

Once the others had filed out, although perhaps fled was a more accurate description of the event, nervousness began to hum through Stiles’ veins.

“Hey,” Derek stroked the side of Stiles’ face with a tenderness that was so unlike him that it threw Stiles for a loop, “It’s okay. Nobody is going to get hurt here.”

“I… do you… how…” Stiles bit his lip and then choked out as fast as he could, “Doyouwanttopenetrateme?”

“Maybe in a few days,” Derek replied, deciphering the Stilesspeak with an ease that came with years of practice, “Not even female Sentinels can handle being penetrated during the imprinting process. It’s too much input for their senses to handle and causes them to overload.”

“Right, okay,” Stiles accepted that, “So, what, exactly is the game plan here then?”

“It’s really not that complicated, Stiles,” Derek told him, “We just do what feels good and if it doesn’t then we’ll stop and try something else.”

“Right, I’m being stupid. I’ve never… which you know, of course.”

“Why didn’t you?” Derek asked, “I know for a fact that there have been plenty of people interested; I could smell their arousal, Stiles.”

“I just… couldn’t,” Stiles admitted in a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles swallowed, “I mean that I _tried_ , Derek, and I couldn’t. My magic wouldn’t let me. I tried with both girls and guys. I’d pick them up at a bar out of town, using a fake ID, or they’d pick _me_ up. We’d go to a hotel room, we’d make out, and everything would be perfectly fine until they tried to take my clothes off. Every single one of them ended up on their asses on the other end of the room, confused and having no memory of who I was. My magic would burn afterward until I got back to Beacon.”

“The supernatural communities kept better records about the ancient guardians than the _mundanes_ did. My mother once told me a story about a Warlock Sentinel from ancient times.” Derek spoke in gentle voice after a long minute, “He existed back before Sentinels and Guides first vanished from the earth. According to the legend, the only person he ever knew intimately was his Guide; his magic stopped him from seeking out companionship as a teenager and, once his Sentinel senses emerged, the only person whose touch didn’t hurt him was his Guide’s.”

“What was his name?” Stiles asked, curious despite himself.

“Merlin,” Derek revealed, “And his Guide’s name was Arthur.”

“I really hope that you’re not saying that I’m the first Warlock Sentinel since _Merlin_ , Derek. I don’t think I could take that kind of pressure.”

“I do,” Derek responded and Stiles balked at his confidence, “You’re much stronger and more capable than you realize, Stiles.”

Stiles let that rest between them for a moment before speaking again, “Maybe, maybe my magic didn’t let me because I didn’t really want to.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said unexpectedly.

Stiles looked up at him in confusion, “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek repeated, “I shouldn’t have tried to pressure you into having meaningless sex, Stiles. I _knew_ how much the topic distressed you when we talked about it and I still pushed… I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.”

“You were worried,” Stiles reminded.

“I was terrified,” Derek corrected quietly, “There was a girl in New York, a witch. She was seventeen and she ignored the Alpha’s suggestion that she have sex with someone she trusted to protect herself. Laura and I found what was left of her… it was horrific, Stiles. I’ve spent _months_ imagining you in her place and… I still shouldn’t have pressured you.”

“I forgive you,” Stiles assured him, knowing instinctively that the last thing that Derek would want was to be told that his actions were ‘okay’. “And you weren’t entirely wrong, Derek. It _is_ dangerous for me to remain a virgin.” And then, before he could lose his confidence, “So why don’t you come make sure that I’m safe?”

Derek cupped the back of Stiles’ next and pulled him into a kiss that felt like flying without wings and the blanket between them became a barrier that Stiles wanted _gone_ immediately. In one heartbeat, Stiles lost who he was… and then found who he was meant to be.

**(*)**

_Six Weeks Later_

“I can’t decide if it’s cliché or not- that your Spirit Guide is a wolf,” Stiles announced, dumping his backpack on the floor and crawling into Derek’s lap to kiss him. Stiles loved kissing Derek; Derek’s lips were soft and warm and tasted like ecstasy and gingerbread.

In a swift move, Derek flipped them so that Stiles was beneath him on the couch, “I can’t decide if it’s ironic or not- that yours is a fox.”

“Touché,” Stiles chuckled, shifting to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist.

On the floor beside them, a wolf with jet black fur and a marble fox lay side by side, watching over their humans protectively. Their vigilance was a constant, though not intrusive, thing.

“I wish we knew more about them,” Stiles said as he nuzzled Derek’s throat, “The U.S. Government has been telling people for years that Spirit Animals are nothing more than a _myth_ , you know.”

“We know their names,” Derek pointed out.

“Yeah, but we can’t explain _how_ we know their names,” Stiles returned, “And we’re the only ones who can see them. The rest of the Pack doesn’t know whether to believe us or worry if we’ve gone crazy. Lydz has been trying to gather research about Spirit Animals from other countries, the ones that admit they’re a real thing, but she hasn’t been able to find much. Information available to _mundanes_ about the spiritual aspect of Sentinels and Guides is sparse.”

Derek shrugged, “If Faolan and Crevan don’t want to be seen by the others then there’s nothing we can do about it. And we’ll learn what we need to know when the time comes for us to know it.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Stiles asked, looking up directly into Derek’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted, “I just _am_. I think it might be an empathy thing.”

Stiles grip on Derek tightened perceivably. He’d been proud, or maybe the primitive Sentinel he carried around inside of him had been proud, when, in the wake of their bonding as a Sentinel-Guide pair, Derek’s mental abilities had increased to remarkable levels.

One of the first things Derek had done following the isolation period was to go to his uncle and with one touch Derek had, somehow, Stiles wouldn’t pretend to understand it, _healed_ the parts of Peter that were still damaged. Uncle and nephew had clung to each other as Peter had broken down, apologizing sincerely over and over. Memories suppressed had been found and Peter had managed to relate, haltingly, how Gerard and Kate had kept him in an induced coma for years, torturing him for daring to _corrupt_ Chris as a teenager.

A part of Stiles, the part that was ruthless when it came to protecting his Pack, wanted to resurrect Gerard and Kate simply so he could kill them again in the most painful way possible. He knew spells that would flay their skin from their bones, even while keeping them alive, and spells that would boil their blood inside them until they burst- and Stiles was itching to find a way to use them. This desire was nothing knew, truth be told, Stiles had wanted to eviscerate Kate from the moment he’d found out about her coercing Derek into having sex with her. Statutory rape was still rape and Stiles hoped that Kate was enjoying the deepest part of hell.

Derek had also fashioned a kind of energy tether between his heart and the hearts of everyone else he considered _Pack_ , which now included both John and Chris. He knew where everyone was at any given time, knew if they were sad or happy or angry or afraid, knew if they were hurt. When Allison had sliced her palm open while chopping up a cucumber, Derek had done more than just take her pain away, something he’d always been able to do, he _healed_ the injury with a mere touch as everyone else watched in astonishment. There had never been an Alpha more in sync with his pack than Derek Hale.

Lydia had been ecstatic by Derek’s new powers, launching into research mode and finally coming to the conclusion that Derek had developed advanced Guide abilities because he had bonded with the Sentinel that was unequivocally _his_. Sentinels in captivity didn’t often have the luxury of bonding with their true Guide, they were brainwashed into simply accepting the one assigned to them, and so their Guides rarely became _Guides_ in the fullest sense of the word.

The bond between them had stabilized Derek as much as it had stabilized Stiles.

So the Sentinel in Stiles was proud, he had a strong, capable Guide who could kick ass. But the human side of Stiles was afraid, because mental powers were feared by many on an even deeper level than enhanced senses were… and it was so easy for Stiles to imagine monsters in lab coats surgically implanting a psionic inhibitor into Derek’s back, a procedure that left the Guide in question paralyzed from the waist down seventy-five percent of the time.

“Everything’s okay, babe,” Derek promised, picking up on the distress Stiles had let wash over him.

Stiles buried his face under Derek’s chin, taking comfort in the scent that was so _Derek_ that it blew Stiles’ mind away.

“You know that thing we did this morning?” Stiles gasped out after a minute, “I want us to do it again, right now.”

“You really are insatiable,” Derek noted, not without pleasure.

“Can’t help it,” Stiles murmured against Derek’s skin, “I’m eighteen, male, and you smell so good, Der.”

“Christmas Trees make you horny?” Derek teased affectionately.

“Well, they are an obvious phallic symbol,” Stiles returned seriously.

Derek laughed and then kissed him again, pouring a startling amount of love directly into Stiles through the touch. The kiss lasted no where near as long as Stiles would have liked.

“Lydia and Jackson are on their way,” Derek related with regret.

Stiles increased his hearing up to what he had determined was level three by picturing the fader he used to control that particular sense and willing it to rise. Boyd had been the one to suggest using the volume faders of a DJ mixer to manipulate his senses; Peter had later told them that _traditionally_ dials were used, but it was too late by that point in time. His hearing, now enhanced to a level that was three times as sensitive as a person who possessed a perfect audible range would be, easily detected the heartbeats that Derek had.

Lydia walked in the door two minutes later, dressed in a mint green exercise suit, her hair pulled back into one of those fishy braids that she preferred when she was working out.

“Lydia,” Derek greeted, still on top of Stiles, “Why isn’t Jackson coming in?”

“It’s Pack Night,” Lydia declared, as if she were throwing down a gauntlet, “We’re going bowling. You can fuck each other senseless once I’ve finished kicking both of your asses down at Beacon Lanes.”

Derek growled lowly, a warning from an Alpha to his Beta, a command to back off. It would have worked much better if Lydia had actually been a werewolf. As it was, she simply crossed her arms and started tapping her foot impatiently, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in defiance.

“We’re not gonna win this one, Sourwolf,” Stiles informed his Guide solemnly, wiggling out from under him. Derek sighed but stood up as well when Stiles offered him a hand.

Lydia grinned in triumph, “We’re taking Stiles’ Jeep; Jackson and I wouldn’t want you two getting _lost_ on the way to the alley.”

She flounced out, ignoring the exasperation that was plain to see on Derek’s face.

“No respect,” Derek muttered.

“I respect you,” Stiles smirked, “I’d respect you a lot more if you’d fuck me in the back of the Camaro when we get home tonight.”

Derek groaned, “For the last time, Stiles, we are not having sex in my car. If we do, the smell will never go away and I won’t be able to drive it without getting hard. I’ll be fighting the urge to hunt you down for a quickie every single time that I have to go anywhere.”

“That’s not exactly a deterrent in my book, Der Bear,” Stiles quipped.

“Get your ass in the Jeep, Stiles.”

**(*)**

Stiles bowled three perfect games in a row, which never could have happened before he came online. He wasn’t bad at bowling before, but he was certainly no Earl Anthony. Having vision that was ten times better than perfect was a major advantage when it came to aiming the ball and sending it down a lane with thousands of grooves and bumps that no one but him could perceive.

His teammates, Derek, Scott, and Allison, had spent the entirety of the second and third games smirking at the others; they’d spent the first gaping along with Lydia, Jackson, Erika, Boyd, and Isaac. Lydia spent the majority of the car ride back to the den promising retribution while Stiles snickered at her and Derek reasonably reminded her, several times, that there had been no rule saying Stiles couldn’t use his abilities.

Stiles heard Scott, Allison, and Isaac reach the den first, they’d left the bowling alley a good five minutes before anyone else, and then, seconds later, Stiles heard Scott and Isaac growling furiously.

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles and Derek said simultaneously, cutting off Lydia’s tirade.

“Jackson, hit the gas, now,” Derek ordered, his eyes flashing red at the very idea of a threat to their Pack.

For once, Stiles didn’t protest the abuse of his Jeep, willing Jackson to go even faster than was safe, hating that members of his family were dealing with something that was clearly bad without him there to back them up.

They pulled into the den’s driveway at the same time as Erika and Boyd did in their car. Derek was out of the Jeep in a flash, his nostrils flaring, “Someone was here while we were gone and tried to get through the wards.”

Stiles touched his scent fader and slid it up to level four. He inhaled deeply, gasped audibly, and then felt the blood draining from his face. Stiles stepped back against the side of his Jeep, letting his palms flatten against the door.

“Stiles?” Derek was back by his side in a moment, “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“Honeysuckle and roses,” Stiles’ heard his voice shaking and he wasn’t surprised, he was so confused and upset at that moment that it couldn’t be accurately measured. “It smells like my mom used to smell, Der, exactly like her.”

Stiles had realized, a week after his senses emerged, that even though he’d technically been dormant, his brain had still continued to catalogue things like he was an online Sentinel, recording the enhanced sensory input automatically and tucking it away for safekeeping. Hence the ADHD. Because of this, Stiles could vividly recall things that he’d noticed, but hadn’t realized he’d noticed, in the past. One of these things had been his mother’s scent before his fifth birthday, before the sour odor of sickness had begun to permeate her person.

“Are you getting chills?” Lydia questioned with a quiet urgency, cutting Derek’s reply off, “Do you feel anything off about the air?”

“No,” Stiles answered, as Derek pulled him close. Stiles wound his arms around Derek’s waist and gripped his leather jacket tightly with both hands.

Lydia deflated, “Oh, I thought… there have been reports in Europe of Sentinels being able to perceive ghosts with their senses.”

“You think she really was here?” Stiles asked; hope warring with his common sense.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Boyd interjected, not unkindly, “The rest of us can all smell that someone’s been here, someone who was very much alive while they were rifling through our things.”

“The scent is definitely flowery,” Jackson offered, “I can’t tell what kinds of flowers though.”

“Stiles is right about the roses,” Scott announced, “They’re Allison’s favorite and the scent is unique. I can’t identify the other flower.”

“It’s honeysuckle,” Erika said definitively.

“Whoever it was, they didn’t manage to get through the wards,” Stiles spoke after a few long moments of soaking up the comfort Derek offered him, adrenaline still pounding through his veins, “Which means that even if they’re a magic user, they’re not more powerful than I am.”

“Which doesn’t exactly narrow down the list of possible candidates all that much, Batman,” Erika returned dryly, “You’re the most powerful magic user that we know of.”

“Granted,” Stiles muttered.

“Scott, Jackson, Isaac, follow the scent trail as far as you can,” Derek instructed, “Erika, Boyd, go check on John, discreetly. If this has something to do with Claudia then he could be in danger. Lydia, Allison, see if you can dig up anything else on spirits and ghosts.”

“What am I doing?” Stiles asked as everyone began to move off.

“Coming inside to calm down,” Derek replied, “You’re still on the verge of having a panic attack.”

Stiles let Derek lead him into the security of the den and into Derek’s bedroom, which had quickly become _their_ bedroom after their bonding.

“Guide,” Stiles croaked out, shaking and unable to stop.

“Sentinel,” Derek lifted him onto the bed and positioned him on his side. Derek curled around him, spooning him, his arms crossing over Stiles’ chest. When he spoke again it was with a voice that was rich with the power of a Guide, “ _Breathe, Stiles, breathe with me. In and Out. Close your eyes and focus on my voice, on my heartbeat, on Christmas Trees. That’s it, baby. In and Out._ ”

By degrees, Stiles found his panic subsiding, Derek’s voice and scent and heartbeat enough to ground him.

“Sorry,” Stiles spoke some time later, embarrassed by how close he had come to losing it.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Derek told him, “It was a perfectly natural response. If I could suddenly smell Laura or Cora or my parents again… I would definitely freak out.”

Stiles snuggled closer to Derek and let himself relax, using the beat of Derek’s heart to soothe him even further. It was like a lullaby; the most perfect lullaby in existence. Stiles closed his eyes, just for a moment.

When he opened them again he found himself trapped between Derek’s body and Scott’s. A quick stretch of his hearing told him that Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Erika, Boyd, and Isaac were all camped out in the room too.

“Go back to sleep,” Derek murmured in his ear, “Everything’s okay right now.”

Content in the knowledge that Derek wouldn’t lie to him, Stiles obeyed, slipping back into the bliss of sleep.

**(*)**

“Of course I’m frustrated,” Stiles huffed at Derek, “It’s been thirteen days and we still have no idea who tried to break into our den. The scent disappeared at the river and we haven’t been able to find it again anywhere and no amount of research has helped us figure out why my mother’s scent was here to begin with.”

Derek climbed into their bed, “We’ll figure it out, Stiles, we will. But, in the meantime, I need for you to not lose your temper and get suspended from school.”

“It’s only for a week,” Stiles protested, “And Mrs. Kerrigan _was_ being a bitch. I simply called her out on it. And why the hell did you tell my dad about me smelling mom?”

“Because he was worried that you were going to have a feral episode due to stress at school,” Derek told him.

“I’d rather him think that,” Stiles sniped, “At least then he wouldn’t be _hurting_ right now.”

“No, he’d be scared and distracted, which is dangerous when you’re the Sheriff of a town like Beacon Hills,” Derek said pointedly.

Stiles deflated, “I hate this.”

“I know, babe,” Derek kissed his forehead tenderly, “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Der,” Stiles reminded, “I’m sorry for acting like an ass.”

Derek smiled softly, “Don’t worry; I love you too, even when you’re acting like an ass.”

**(*)**

“Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” an almost musical voice dragged Stiles from unconsciousness, and he opened his eyes to the sight of a young woman with long platinum-blonde hair, red lips, and dark eyes looming over him, “That’s it, little Sentinel. I need you conscious for this to work.”

“What?” Stiles blinked up at her in confusion and tried to sit up, only to be stopped by a thin, silver twine that was wrapped around each of his wrists and ankles. There was more rope crossed over his waist and the top of his stomach. The rope was burning him in every place that it touched his skin, which included his torso since he was only wearing his boxers. Stiles scrambled to reach his faders, but they seemed to have deserted him.

And no wonder, since he was tied down to a fucking _altar_ that was covered in glowing red runes that looked remarkably similar to the ones that were used to block a werewolf’s enhanced senses. Stiles’ senses were apparently locked at the levels they had been when he’d gone to sleep in Derek’s arms. Touch was elevated the highest, which meant that the curved blade in the woman’s hands was going to hurt like a bitch if it cut into him, and the rest of his senses were all at level two. There were other runes too, strong ones that were obviously designed to keep the victim’s magic out of reach, but they weren’t tailored specifically to Stiles’ magic. That was something at least, because it meant that he had a chance of overriding the power of the runes if he pushed at them for long enough.

“Who the hell are you?” Stiles snapped at the woman.

“Freyja,” the woman replied, and it wouldn’t have taken a psychiatrist to tell him that she was obviously insane, “Not that it really matters to you; once the full moon is at its peak, I’ll be taking your heart, little Sentinel. And then I’ll drain your friends dry. Do you know how many uses there are for werewolf blood?”

Speaking of werewolves, Stiles turned his head to the right and found the majority of his Pack trapped inside a large cage in the corner of the dark room, looking furious and terrified and exhausted in equal measure; only John, Chris, and Peter were missing. Their wrists and ankles were all bound with the same silvery rope that was keeping Stiles pinned to the altar. It had to be magical in nature, if it was holding out against werewolf strength. There was an opaque film around the cage that slightly distorted Stiles’ view of its occupants; probably a sound barrier designed to keep Stiles and Freyja from hearing the Pack. Freyja seemed like the type to not enjoy being distracted when she was carving another person up. Stiles wasn’t sure if the barrier kept the Pack from hearing them in turn; would Freyja want his Pack to hear him die? Probably, actually, most psychopaths seemed to enjoy such things in Stiles’ experience.

“How did you get past the wards?” Stiles demanded to know, turning his attention back to Freyja, as his brain caught up with the fact that she had said _full moon_ , which Stiles could see through the glass roof above him; it was almost at its zenith, which meant that he didn’t have much time. He’d been unconscious for twenty-four full hours. Clearly the others had not; they wouldn’t look so tired if they’d been kept in the same unnatural sleep that Stiles obviously had been.

Stiles wanted to be sick, because he just _knew_ that Freyja had been taunting them while Stiles was dead to the world. His Pack, Stiles knew, would not cope well with something like that; especially not Derek, who had feared this very situation, or one ridiculously similar to it, occurring for so long. If, _when_ , they got out of this, Stiles was going to find himself wrapped up in cotton for the rest of his life.

“Well it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park,” Freyja pouted, as if to illicit pity for the trouble she’d had to go through. “Your Banshee is more powerful than I realized. I had to go all the way to Australia and kill half a dozen people to get a bloodstone strong enough to destroy the protections she had around your doghouse. The stone also knocked you all out long enough for me to get you here. Your Pack was very upset with me when they woke up, you know; I got tired of listening to them scream obscenities at me very quickly.”

She didn’t know that Stiles had magic; she thought _Lydia_ was the Pack’s Emissary. It was the perfect assumption to make and in most cases Freyja would have been right to make it. She had no way of knowing that Lydia had sacrificed her ability to practice magic to save Jackson from the Kanima’s thrall. This assumption, no matter how erroneous, also explained why the runes hadn’t been tailored to permanently contain a warlock.

“Bloodstones are dangerous to own and even more dangerous to use,” Stiles snapped at her, “They _rot_ your soul.”

“I assure you, that stopped being an issue for me two dozen rituals like this ago,” Freyja related in a blithe manner.

“You’ve done this before,” Stiles wished he could have been surprised, but the woman’s aura screamed _crazy_.

“Of course,” Freyja shrugged, as if it was no big deal to have murdered twenty-four people in cold blood, “It used to be so easy to get a hold of a Sentinel every six months to augment my powers; that’s not the case anymore.”

“Finding a Sentinel to butcher was _easy_?” Stiles’ tone was full of blatant disbelief.

“Oh, yes. All I had to do was waltz into one of those silly Sentinel compounds and pick out the one that I wanted. A simple memory charm and no one was the wiser,” Freyja complained, “But then that stupid _Underground_ freed all those children from the compounds in Maine and Cascade and the Sentinel Center tightened security across the board. I almost got caught last time. Me! I would love, more than anything, to rip out the heart of the _Prime_ that’s running that show.”

“The _Underground_?” Stiles questioned. He could _almost_ reach his magic, he just needed a bit more time to break down the runes’ power.

“The Underground Railroad, take two,” Freyja sniffed in disdain, “They started out as merely a nuisance… but then they got _bold_ seven months ago. I almost admire them for the tenacity it took to storm those compounds.”

“Why do you need Sentinels?” Stiles demanded.

“I told you,” Freyja replied, “To make me stronger… and to keep me young and beautiful. I’m forty-nine, but I certainly don’t look it. All Sentinels have a connection to the spiritual plane and that makes your life forces stronger than those of _mundanes_. Now, the average Sentinel in America isn’t nearly as powerful as nature intended, to be honest, the government has seen to that. The Sentinels that I’ve taken in the past had only the most basic links to the spirits, because they didn’t have true Guides, and their life forces only lasted me about half a year.”

“You, on the other hand,” Freyja continued, trailing the tip of her fingernail down the side of Stiles’ face, “Have a connection to the spiritual plane that is far more potent. You actually made contact with your Spirit Animal and you have an Ochre Moon _soul-bond_ with your Guide. Your Alpha Werewolf Guide. I couldn’t ask for a better offering. Consuming your heart will be like consuming your Guide’s at the same time and it will keep me young and powerful for _decades_.”

The moment she’d touched him, in the mock caress, an unmistakable scent had almost overwhelmed Stiles and he glowered at her, “Why the fuck do you smell like my _mother_?”

Freyja laughed, “I had wondered if you’d be able to tell.”

“Tell what?” Stiles snarled.

“Once upon a time,” Freyja related in a sing-song manner, “There was a shaman who had a great deal of magical power, so much, in fact, that those who knew about her power both revered and envied her. But instead of using her gifts, she chose to abandon them for the sake of _love_. And the gods punished her for it. A few years later, she bore a son who would prove to be the death of her.”

Something in Stiles’ stomach turned to lead and, suddenly, he knew that he didn’t want to hear how this story ended.

Freyja pressed on, ignorant of Stiles’ desire for her to shut up, “Her son was a Sentinel who came online at the tender age of three. Desperate to save her baby’s life, the former Shaman turned to a witch of mediocre talent for help. The witch wasn’t very powerful, but she knew how to brew a very special potion that would make an online Sentinel dormant. The witch agreed to help, for a price. Everything has a price. A bargain was struck and the mother agreed to sacrifice her magic in exchange for her son’s life. The moment that the son was cleared as _normal_ by the government, the mother’s magic was no longer her own. The witch received the magic into her body and it was so powerful that it burned away the mediocre magic she had been forced to rely on for years. The mother began to grow sick, because without her magic to protect her, her body could no longer fight off the illness that had lurked in her blood and bones all her life. The mother died and the son lived on, ignorant of the price of his life. The witch did great things with her new power, conquering even old age, and people in her world grew to fear her as much as they had loved the mother.”

It was like his soul had frozen over; Stiles couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t rationalize anything. Moonlight washed over him as earth’s ancient satellite reached its apex, but all Stiles was capable of doing was allowing a single, poisonous thought to echo throughout his mind, ‘ _I killed my mother. I killed my mother. I killed my mother._ ’

Freyja giggled, delighted by Stiles’ grief, and it was the giggle that did it. Rage consumed every crevice of Stiles mind and heart and soul, because he may have killed his mother, but Freyja had taken her beautiful soul and twisted it into something dark and ugly. And she was going to pay for that.

A growl louder than any wolf’s ripped its way out of Stiles’ throat and reverberated throughout the room, making the walls tremble and the glass roof shatter. The silly runes that had hindered him before were _nothing_ to him now. The altar cracked in two and the ropes burned away as the full amount of Stiles’ magical power rushed out from his core, his magic as furious as he was.

Stiles was standing in front of Freyja before he’d even really thought to move, purple flames danced across his skin and he knew without having to check that his eyes were glowing an unearthly green.

Freyja stumbled back in shock, her face and arms covered in dozens of tiny cuts from where the glass had cut her as is fell, “No, that’s not possible. Sentinels can’t _have_ magic.”

“I can,” Stiles’ voice was like thunder and he reached a hand toward her unhesitatingly, uttering words that were no spell but held great power all the same, held power because _he_ was the one speaking them, “ _Daj mi magię mojej matki!_ ”

A green light shot out from Stiles’ palm and Freyja screamed in agony as it struck her heart. Stiles’ fingers curled into a fist and he yanked his hand down; the emerald energy rushed back into Stiles’ hand. Freyja fell to her knees, clutching at her chest and whimpering in pain.

The Warlock’s task was done… but the Sentinel had yet to come out and play.

What little control Stiles still had evaporated without warning and everything he could see morphed into shades of red: ruby, crimson, scarlet, blood. Freyja staggered to her feet just in time for Stiles to launch himself at her; she was dead in under a minute, her throat torn out so completely that her head was almost completely detached from her body. Stiles let her fall to the ground without ceremony, mercilessly pleased by the lifelessness of her eyes.

Objective reached, the frenzy faded, leaving Stiles more worn out than he had ever been in his life. He was covered in blood and the smell made him want to gag. His scent fader was at level ten; Stiles hastily pushed it down to one. Stiles turned his attention to his Pack, raising the hand that he hadn’t used to hurt Freyja toward the cage, “ _Ustawić je za darmo_.”

The cage crumbled into ash and the ropes transformed into nothing more than wispy smoke. Stiles collapsed against the side of the broken altar, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Derek was there, pulling him into his arms, and the rest of the Pack was surrounding them, pressing in close.

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice was desperate, scared, and relieved all at once, “Stiles, talk to me, babe!”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked tiredly, because he _needed_ to know, “Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine,” Derek assured thickly, “We’re all fine.”

“I killed her,” Stiles whispered, pain lancing through him, like he really had been stabbed by that wicked knife.

“She _deserved_ it,” Scott replied in a dark tone that _really_ didn’t suit him.

“No, not her,” Stiles raised the hand that was still curled into a fist and opened it to reveal a tiny ball of pulsating golden light, “Mom.”

“No,” Derek denied quickly, “No, Stiles, it wasn’t your fault. _Freyja_ killed your mother, not you. You were a baby, Stiles, and you certainly didn’t have any say in the matter when your mother agreed to give away her magic.”

“It _is_ my fault,” Stiles protested, hot tears escaping from his eyes and slipping down his cheeks, “She did it to protect _me_.”

“And that was her choice, Stiles,” Derek insisted, “She loved you more than life and she had the right, as your mother, to do _whatever_ she deemed was necessary to protect you. You’re no more to blame for your mother’s death than I am for mine.”

Oh, well that just wasn’t fair. How many times had Stiles made his opinion on that particular matter very clear? How many times had he asserted that Derek’s guilt regarding the fire was utterly misplaced?

Stiles shuddered, huddling closer to Derek’s warmth, suddenly realizing just how cold the room was. Derek rocked him gently, letting Stiles ruin his shirt with saltwater. Stiles wasn’t sure how much time passed, but eventually the precious golden orb that he was cradling in his hands began to hum.

Stiles stared down at it as it brightened suddenly and then vanished… leaving behind a golden medallion, two inches in diameter, in its place. A rose wreathed by honeysuckle; Stiles ran his fingers over the flowers reverently.

“A Soul Sigil,” Lydia murmured in amazement.

Stiles took a deep breath, “Derek? It’s time to go home.”

**(*)**

Faolan and Crevan were waiting right outside the decrepit building that Freyja had dragged the Pack to. They’d been prevented from entering because of the wards, all freshly carved, three inches deep, into the earth, which encircled the building like a dark halo. And the animals were very obviously unhappy about having been separated from their charges for so long; they rushed over to Stiles and Derek and demanded their attention.

“Oh my God,” Scott breathed and Stiles turned his attention away from Faolan, whose ears he was scratching behind, to see that Scott was staring directly at the Spirit Animals.

Actually, Stiles realized with a mild form of surprise, too much had already happened that night to induce any kind of real shock, _everyone_ was.

“You can see them?” Derek asked, picking up Crevan when the fox whined for his consideration. Crevan looked very pleased with himself after that, looking down at Faolan from his perch in Derek’s arms.

“They’re _beautiful_ ,” Alison said in reply.

“I guess you two aren’t crazy,” Jackson remarked, “Well, not ‘ _seeing things_ ’ crazy anyway. The jury’s still out on almost every other kind.”

“Not to burst anyone’s bubble,” Boyd spoke up after a minute, “But, does anyone have any idea where the hell we are? Or how we’re going to get back to Beacon, for that matter?”

Stiles looked around briefly, noting that they seemed to be in the middle of a forest, though _what_ forest, exactly, was a mystery to him. They were definitely not in _their_ forest… and probably not in any of the forests that were situated close to Beacon either. With magic having been at play in getting them there- they could be in New Zealand for all Stiles knew.

Faolan barked once, and then began walking off. He stopped a moment later and looked back at them all, impatience and exasperation clear to see in his lime green eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles told the wolf, “We’re coming.”

“We’re going to follow him home?” Erika questioned, incredulous.

“Do you have a better idea?” Derek asked her.

“Well, no.”

“Alright then.”

And so the Hale Pack found themselves following the Spirit Animal deep into the woods, which was tainted a rather unnerving shade of blue.

**(*)**

Stiles’ father had appeared to be absolutely wrecked when the Pack reached the den several hours later; Faolan looked rather smug when the Pack realized that it had taken far less time than it should have to get back home. Peter, Chris, and Melissa were with John- and they looked no better than he did until they caught sight of Derek, Allison, and Scott walking toward them.

The Sheriff of Beacon Hills had sprinted across the lawn to pull Stiles into a tight, relieved hug, “Jesus fucking Christ, where the hell have you been?”

“It’s a long story,” Stiles mumbled into his father’s shoulder, clinging to his dad like a limpet, “And not exactly a nice one. Though, it did, in fact, have a happy ending. So, there is that.”

“Tell me that you’re alright,” John demanded hoarsely.

“I’m okay,” Stiles promised, “I am. We all are. I’m mostly just tired, to be honest.”

“What happened?” John asked, pulling away just enough so that he could see Stiles’ face, “Peter said that he couldn’t track your scents because of some kind of spell.”

“Let’s go inside and talk, okay?” Stiles offered, his stomach tightening at the thought of divulging certain realities to his father. “You… you’re gonna want to be sitting down for this.”

“I really hate it when you start conversations with that sentence, son,” John told him, frowning deeply, “I always end up hearing things like, ‘Dad, all my friends are Werewolves,’ or some variation of, ‘I nearly died today in this new, horrifying way.’”

Stiles snorted, unintentionally amused by his dad’s bitching, “I like to keep things interesting, keep you on your toes.”

“You like turning my hair grey,” John muttered under his breath, well aware that his son could easily hear him, and then spoke in a clearer tone, “Alright, inside then. And don’t bother prevaricating, kiddo. I want the truth, the whole truth, this time.”

“And nothing but the truth?” Stiles quipped lightly.

“Exactly,” John agreed, releasing Stiles so that they could walk into the den together, “Integrity is a virtue, you know.”

“Prudence and gravity are virtues too,” Stiles returned in a blithe manner, “But you don’t see me exemplifying them on any kind of regular basis.”

“I think that I’d be seriously worried if you did,” John admitted.

Father and son sat together at the island in the kitchen, cups of hot cocoa cooling between them, as Stiles revealed why he and the others had vanished into the night and what he had learned. The rest of the Pack stayed out of the kitchen, giving Stiles and his dad the illusion of privacy. The real thing was hard to come by when nearly every member of your family could easily hear through walls.

John was incensed, distressed, and relieved in turns, but not, Stiles realized, surprised. Not by anything that Stiles related about Claudia at any rate.

“You knew,” Stiles challenged, without any real heat behind the words.

“Yes,” his father divulged, meeting Stiles’ eyes directly, “Your mother and I both knew what would eventually happen _before_ she agreed to give Freyja her magic.”

“How could you let her-” Stiles began, angry.

“I loved your mother desperately, son,” John interrupted firmly, “I still love her and I miss her every single day; I will continue to love and miss her until the day I die. I would sacrifice almost anything, including my own life, to bring her back. But the one thing I could never, ever sacrifice is _you_ , Stiles.”

Stiles anger evaporated, “Dad…”

John sighed, “Your mother said once, when we were first discussing having kids, that the decision to have a child was to choose to allow the most precious part of your soul to walk around outside your body. She was right, kiddo. To your mother, you were the sun, and the moon, and the stars- and to me… you’re the reason I get up and put on a badge every day, why I spend my time hunting down dangerous people. I don’t do it for anyone else but you, son, to make this world just a little bit safer for _you_.”

Stiles blinked at his father, his vision blurring with tears he was trying to keep at bay, “Dad… I love you, dad.”

“I love you too,” John replied, “Always and forever.”

**(*)**

“The wards have all been reset,” Stiles announced, making his way over to fridge to pour himself a glass of milk, “Did you guys know that milk procured from cows at night has more melatonin than milk acquired from cows during the day? Drinking night milk can help you fall asleep.”

“If that was your subtle way of telling us that we all should have stayed tucked in bed while you ran around by yourself in the dark,” Erika replied, “Then I’m going to have to reassess my opinion about your level of intelligence, Batman.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at her.

“What happens if someone else gets a hold of another bloodstone?” Jackson asked, “Will the wards collapse again?”

“No,” Stiles promised, “ _Nothing_ is ever going to bring the wards down again. The den is safe; I swear.”

“Not to disparage your abilities as a Warlock, because I have the utmost respect for the fact that you can kick my ass, but _why_ are you so sure that a bloodstone won’t work again?” Scott asked.

“Because I anchored the wards using the Soul Sigil,” Stiles answered, draining his glass and placing it in the sink.

“Oh!” Lydia got it immediately, “That was rather brilliant of you, Stiles.”

“I have been known to have good ideas on occasion,” Stiles retorted dryly, leaning back against Derek’s chest as his Guide stepped up behind him. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist.

“I don’t understand,” Isaac spoke up, “Why was it brilliant?”

“A Soul Sigil is the single most powerful kind of protection amulet that is known to magic users,” Lydia explained, “If a magic user is pure of heart and they sacrifice their life because of love, their magic will remain behind to protect the one that they died for.”

“My mother sacrificed herself for me,” Stiles added quietly, “After I freed her magic from Freyja, it reacted to that sacrifice and took a new form. Namely, the Sigil.”

“And you chose to use your mother’s protection to keep us safe,” Allison murmured, her eyes shining.

“Well, yes, of course I did-” Stiles was cut off by six werewolves, a banshee, and a huntress slamming into him with a force that, although was not painful, took his breath away. It startled him, being clung to, but he adapted quickly to being in the middle of an upright puppy pile- and then he clung too.

**(*)**

Going out to dinner, just the two of them, had been Derek’s idea and Stiles had appreciated it immensely. Not just because he sincerely enjoyed doing _couple_ things with Derek, which he definitely did, but also because it got Stiles away from the overly solicitous behavior of the rest of the Pack. He understood, intellectually, that it would take them time to get past what had happened, but the attentiveness was still managing to drive Stiles up the proverbial wall.

Derek had chosen an Italian restaurant located in Beacon Valley, an expensive place that Stiles had never been to before but found himself liking a lot. It was over a shared dessert of Tiramisu and cappuccinos that Stiles felt it.

“What’s wrong?” Derek inquired lowly.

“There’s a weird… static in the air,” Stiles revealed in an undertone, “Like there’s something, or _someone_ , powerful nearby.”

“Magic?” Derek questioned.

“Yes,” Stiles answered, “But there’s more to it than just magic. It doesn’t feel malicious or anything- just foreign and potent.”

“All the same,” Derek decided, signaling to the waiter to bring the check, “If there’s something that powerful close by, I’d rather we weren’t separated from our Pack.”

Stiles and Derek came face to face with the cause of the static only a few minutes later, as they rounded the corner of the restaurant to head toward Derek’s car. Standing in their path to the Camaro were two impossible individuals- a Sentinel and a Guide.

The Guide had shoulder length brown hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, one that didn’t quite contain all of his wild, energetic curls despite its best efforts, and he sported sapphire blue eyes that seemed to just barely contain a world of amazing stories. He was dressed in vibrant colors and carried a soothing herbal scent around with him that screamed _tribal magic_. Stiles felt comfortable in his presence immediately; the man radiated benevolence and protectiveness.

The Sentinel was taller and more a bit more muscular, with icy eyes that looked upon Stiles and Derek with respect and fondness; the smile he directed at them was genuine- but also just this side of feral. His clothing was understated, especially when compared to his Guide’s, but it did nothing to hide the power he exuded without meaning to.

Both men bore faded scars, each one a memory of a battle they had fought and won, and they crossed the remaining distance between them and Beacon Hills’ Sentinel-Guide pair with the easy grace of warriors. These were no mindless, government-controlled slaves sent out to do the United State’s dirty work… these were _Alphas_ , men who played by no one’s rules but their own.

Flanking the men were two Spirit Animals- a beautiful wolf with quicksilver fur and a sleek, black jaguar. Faolan and Crevan crept forward without hesitating, looking upon the two new spirits like they were all old friends. Briefly, the thought flittered through Stiles’ mind that perhaps they _were_ ; reincarnation wasn’t so unbelievable these days. Maybe that was why Stiles was so utterly sure that he could trust these men, why his Sentinel was so pleased to see them.

“Hello, Sentinel Stilinski, Guide Hale,” the Guide spoke with a warm, generous smile, coming to a halt a foot away from Stiles and Derek, “My name is Blair Sandburg and this is my Sentinel, James Ellison. We’re here to talk to you about the _Underground_.”

**THE END**

**Translations**

  * _Daj mi magię mojej matki!_ – Give me my mother’s magic!
  * _Ustawić je za darmo_ – Set them free



**Author's Note:**

> If I write a sequel, it will not be for some time.
> 
> I am aware that the Polish is not completely accurate, the incantations Stiles uses are BASED on Polish. Stop leaving me comments about how it's not a one hundred percent correct translation. You're seriously just pissing me off.


End file.
